Night of the Zombie Chickens (7 page)

I refocus with an effort. It's not a movie. It's a fight with my best friend. “Baby?” I flare. “You are a pathetic wannabe. Trying to be Lydia's best buddy...”

“There's nothing wrong with having other friends,” Alyssa cuts in coldly.

“Stop acting like you don't know what I'm talking about!” I practically scream at her.

I see something flicker in her face—is it anger, or guilt? She bites her lower lip. I should stop right there and let her make the next move. But once again I can't seem to shut up. Maybe I'm a little jealous. Of course Lydia wants to be friends with Alyssa. She has shiny blond hair and she's pretty and she looks like she should be in high school. Clearly Lydia doesn't want to be friends with me.

“Or maybe you really don't know what I'm talking about,” I go on recklessly. “Maybe this is yet another blond moment for Duh-lyssa Jensen.” I pretend to flick my hair away from my face and say in my best Alyssa voice: “Huh? Homework? I have long blond hair, so I don't need to be smart. Everyone loves dumb blondes, right?”

Alyssa's face turns red. She shakes her head but can't think of a thing to say. The girl desperately needs a scriptwriter. Finally she spits out, “You suck,” and stomps away.

I grab my books and hurry outside, ignoring the stares. I feel like a zombie that's just been stabbed through the heart with a pair of scissors.

A
s
soon as I get home that afternoon, I go straight to my room and throw myself on my bed. I stare at the ceiling, tears oozing from my eyelids and rolling onto the pillow. When I try to piece together what happened, exactly where things went wrong, I keep coming back to my mother and her chickens. If we lived in a regular house in town like normal people, Lydia wouldn't have seen a hen poop, Wilma wouldn't be rolling in the stuff, Derek wouldn't be shooting it from his slingshot, and it wouldn't be falling off my shoe at school. If we hadn't moved to this run-down farmette in the middle of nowhere, I would still be hanging out with Alyssa and other kids in the neighborhood. I would still have friends and a life.

Of course, I also wouldn't have a movie called
Night of the Zombie Chickens
. I shove this thought aside. I could have called it
Night of the Zombie Dogs
or
Night of the Zombie Hamsters
. Any animal would be easier to work with than our poltergeist poultry, with their beady eyes and evil hearts.

What kind of parent drags her kids away from all their friends? And why did my father agree to it? He could have put his foot down and said, “Let us think of the children.” But no one said that; no one thought about me. I can hardly blame Alyssa for wanting a best friend who lives close by.

When I think of her, an even bigger knot wedges in my throat. Does she really like Lydia better than she likes me? It's such a silly question that I snort out loud. Lydia is popular and pretty. She's funny and does crazy things. When you're Lydia's friend, you're at the center of a whirlwind and there's never a dull moment. How can I compete with that? They've probably been hanging out together at the park for a while and Alyssa never told me. Maybe Lydia has been making fun of my movie behind my back.

Maybe everyone is laughing at me behind my back—poor, pathetic Crapkate, pretending to be a movie director. How lame is that? Why did I ever think I wanted to make movies, anyway?

I wish I had a magic crystal ball so I could figure out what everybody is really thinking. Lydia seemed excited about being in my movie, but then she treated the shoot like a big joke. Alyssa said she was sorry about the way she acted, but then she kept acting that way. And I wanted to make up with Alyssa, but instead I screamed mean things at her.

The world suddenly seems murky, like someone's taken all the nice, crisp lines of a picture and smudged them. Things have never been so twisted up and confusing. A chill creeps inside me as I wonder if this is only the beginning. Is this what growing up is really like, where things get so complicated that you don't know who you are anymore? Maybe all the TV shows and magazines are lying—maybe it's not so cool to be an adult after all.

By the time my mother calls me for dinner, my head is throbbing and so are my teeth. I tell her I'm not hungry and that I don't feel well, but she insists I come down and sit with them anyway. Of course, when one of her hens gets sick, she babies it like it's a newborn infant. I drag myself into my chair at the dinner table and gaze at my plate. Baked chicken. I shove it away. The last thing I want to eat is a dead chicken.

“What's the matter?” my dad asks. “Not hungry?”

I shake my head.

“If she doesn't eat, she doesn't get dessert,” Derek pipes up. “Right, mom? That means I can have her cookies.”

“You're such a baby,” I mumble. The thought of him getting my dessert does make me reconsider the chicken. I stab it with my fork. This actually feels kind of good, so I stab it again.

“Bad day?” my mom asks.

I nod. Stab.

“You're not supposed to play with your food, Dumbo,” Derek says. “Right, mom?”

“Enough, Derek,” my father warns.

“She's playing with her food. That means no dessert,” Derek whines.

“Yes, I had a bad day,” I say loudly. “And no, you can't have my dessert. I'll give it to Wilma before you get a crumb.”

Wilma perks up at her name and shoves her snout in my lap. I slip her a piece of chicken.

“Chocolate chips are bad for dogs,” Derek fires back.

“Wilma has a cast-iron stomach. She can eat anything.”

“Mom! She's going to make Wilma sick.”

All this for a couple of chocolate chip cookies. My parents look at each other across the table, no doubt wishing they had decided to raise gerbils instead of children. Can whiny kids drive parents to divorce?

“Shut up, Derek!” I bark.

“Kate, that's enough. Derek, one more word and Wilma will be eating your dessert, too.” My mother looks frazzled. My dad rubs his eyes. He looks tired as he turns to me.

“Kate, tell us what happened.”

I shake my head. The last thing I want to do is talk about my day over dinner. “It's nothing,” I mutter.

“Something must have happened,” my dad says. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“She always looks terrible,” Derek pipes up.

My dad points a fork at him. “That's cookie number one, buddy. You want to go for two?”

Derek gets a hangdog look and shakes his head.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I say. “Just forget about it.”

My parents exchange another look. Then my mother actually mouths the word
hormones
at my dad.

“Can you not do that, please?” I say loudly. “I'm sitting right here.”

My mother sighs. We all pick at our food. I think about Lydia and her parents. They probably used to all sit down together at dinner, just like we do. Lydia and her sister probably thought everything was fine, and all that time their father had a girlfriend on the side.

I stare at my dad. Suddenly it feels like I don't know him at all. He spends most of his day at work with strangers. It's like he has a whole life apart from us. He has secrets we don't know about. And complications. Could he really decide to leave us behind one day, like Lydia's dad? How could anyone be so important to him that he would abandon his family?

My dad is frowning at his chicken. I wish again that I had a crystal ball so I could find out what he's thinking. It doesn't seem fair that my life is falling apart
and
I have to worry about my parents.

“Well,” my mother finally says, “if it makes you feel any better, I had a bad day, too.”

I'm not sure why this is supposed to make me feel better. I've completely lost my appetite, but I eye the chicken anyway, trying to figure out how little I can eat and still get dessert.

“What happened?” my dad asks.

My mother slathers butter on a piece of bread. “One of my hens has a prolapsed vent.”

“That sounds bad,” Derek says in a superconcerned voice. “What does that mean?” It's completely obvious that he's trying to suck up and get his cookie back, but of course my parents don't realize it.

My mother nods. “It is bad. A prolapsed vent is when the lower part of the oviduct turns inside out and comes out through the vent.”

Derek and I stare at each other. I know better than to ask, but he's trying to win points.

“The what comes through the what?”

My mother smiles at him. “The oviduct is like the fallopian tube. So the egg travels down the tube and the vent is where the egg comes out. Sometimes, hens lay an egg that's too big and it makes their oviduct come out and you have to push it back in. Hemorrhoid cream is supposed to help; isn't that funny?” My mother says all this matter-of-factly. She takes a bite of her chicken. “The problem is, the vent got bloody and then the other hens started to peck at it.”

I'm so revolted I can only stare at her, but Derek screws up his face and shouts, “Gross!”

“I know,” my mother says, warming to her topic. “I had to separate the hen from the others. I read that they'll keep pecking at her vent, and they can even pull out her intestines—”

“Do we have to talk about this at dinner!” I shout. Even my dad's face looks green. He's probably just as sick of chickens as I am. Maybe that's why he spends so much time behind closed doors talking on the phone. “This is not what normal families talk about! It's disgusting!”

My mother puts down her fork. “You do not have to shout, Kate.”

All the horrible feelings from the day swell inside me until I need to either scream or burst into tears again. So I keep screaming. “Yes I do! It's the only way you hear anything! I don't want to hear about the chickens' bloody intestines, or their parasites or their worms!” I shove myself back from the table. “All we ever hear about anymore are your stupid hens! They're all you think about! I'm sick of them! They've ruined my life and so have you, and you don't even care!”

I can feel more tears coming, so I jump up and run for the door. I catch a glimpse of my mother's face. She looks stunned.

“Kate!” my dad calls.

“You should have said no!” I scream at him. He looks confused, but by then I'm already out of the room and up the stairs.

I slam shut my door. “I hate everything!” I shout.

I'm still in shock, but I'm not sure if it's because of the gruesome hen story or the fact that I just screamed at my mother. What has happened to me? A couple of years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of yelling at her. My mom and I were buddies. That was when she paid attention to me.

Is this what happens when kids grow up? Do parents lose interest? Sometimes I wish my mother would still do things like push the hair out of my face and say, “Anybody in there?” I used to complain whenever she did it, so that's probably why she stopped. Still, she should know better than to listen to every little thing I say.

Sometimes I even wish she would get out our goofy-looking ostrich. We named him Ollie. Ollie has a superlong neck covered with penciled lines from measuring Derek and me ever since we were toddlers. My mother always exclaimed at how much I'd grown, even if it was only a sliver. She hasn't pulled out Ollie once since we moved to the farmhouse.

Of course, the reason is that I'm way too old for that. I'm a seventh grader—why would I want to be measured like a little girl? I'll be in high school in two years. I'm practically an adult. Sometimes I wish I could be a clueless fourth grader again. Those were the good old days.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My dad is right, I look terrible. I look like a sixth grader. And if there's a problem in my parents' marriage, I probably just made it worse.

“Good going,” I whisper to myself. “Now she really hates you. She'll probably adopt a hen to be her new daughter.”

My reflection nods in agreement.

A
s
soon as he sees me the next morning, Blake Nash bawls, “Crap alert! Crap alert!” and everybody starts laughing.

“Hey, Braceface, what's on the bottom of your shoe?” Paul Corbett calls.

“You, if you don't shut up,” I mutter.

“Look at me!” Blake shouts. “I'm a famous movie director! I'm making a movie about chickens!”

Paul runs around, squawking and flapping his arms. Blake chases after him, acting like he's shooting with a camera. Then he stares down at his shoes and pretends to gag. “I'm full of crap!”

“No, your movie is crap,” Paul jokes.

I stalk past them toward my locker, but I can feel my face burning. I can't believe they're laughing at my movie. Three days ago I thought people would be begging to be in it. Now it's joke material.

None of this would have happened if I hadn't invited Lydia to be a zombie. And that, of course, was Alyssa's idea.

Lydia sails by, surrounded by her wannabes. Alyssa's in the thick of them. She gives me the cold shoulder, then leans in close to Lydia, whispering. Lydia glances my way and grins. I cringe inside. I wish I could ask Alyssa what's happened to her. Instead, I pretend like I haven't noticed either of them.

“Crapkate! How's it going?” Lydia calls over carelessly, like Crapkate has been my nickname forever and there's nothing wrong with it—like it's Spike or Mags or La-La, which are all fun nicknames of people I know. This bothers me most of all, this pretending like it's totally okay to call me that—like I should just accept such a lame name.

“That's not my nickname,” I say in a loud voice, but they've already moved on. A few sixth graders stare at me. There's nothing like having people watch you talk to thin air to make you feel stupid. I slam my locker shut and stalk to my first class.

All day long, people joke about crap and I tell them to shut up. Then they act like I'm a sour head who can't take a little fun. And maybe I am, but the more I hear it, the more it grates on my nerves. Crap might be funny, but not when your name is attached to it. Secretly I'm hoping Alyssa might still apologize, but she's always busy in the center of a throng of girls. Okay, maybe making fun of her hair and calling her Duh-lyssa were out of line. Still,
I
'
m
not the one who should be apologizing. Not first, anyway.

Apparently Alyssa has decided I don't exist anymore. At lunch, the seats around her are full again, even though I hurry as fast as I can to the lunchroom.

That's when it really, finally hits me. I've been cast out. I
do
belong with Margaret and Doris now. I've become Crapkate Walden, purveyor of chicken poop, daughter of a deranged female farmer in the throes of a midlife crisis, sister of the village idiot, friend to no one.

My shoulders sag in defeat as I sit next to Margaret and Doris. Margaret gives me a big smile, which makes me feel even worse. I've spent a lot of years avoiding Margaret. Surely she picked up on that. Yet now, when she could snub me as payback, Margaret has offered me a seat at the lunch table. I'm such a mess of mixed-up feelings that I half wish Margaret
would
ignore me. I'm pretty sure I deserve it.

“Did you hear about the
Annie
auditions, Kate?” Margaret asks me. “They're in a couple of weeks. Are you trying out?”

I shake my head. “What about you?”

“I don't know. I might.” Margaret wipes the lid of her soda can before opening it. She takes a bite of her sandwich, then dabs her fingers with her napkin. Margaret, it turns out, is a neat freak.

“How about you, Doris?” I ask. “Are you going to try out?”

Doris has a milk mustache. I offer her a napkin, but she just looks blankly at it and crumples it up. With all her supercharged brain cells, you'd think Doris would get the concept of personal grooming. Maybe all geniuses are slobs. Out of the blue, she starts to croak:
“Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love you, tomorrow
...
.”

All the tables around us turn and stare. I catch Alyssa and Lydia exchanging a look like,
Can you believe she just did
that?

“Doris!” I hiss. “What are you doing?”

She shrugs. “Just demonstrating why I'm not trying out. I'm completely tone-deaf.”

“You could have just told me,” I mutter.

“Anyway,” she says, “I don't look like Annie.”

Margaret shakes her head. “It doesn't matter. Mr. Cantrell ordered a wig from New York, and it just arrived this morning. You should see it, Kate. It's so cute. He's got it in the music classroom. Whoever plays Annie gets to wear the wig.”

The entire female seventh- and eighth-grade population is already buzzing about the red wig. I must hear the word
cute
at least fifty times after lunch. In fact, it quickly gets dubbed the Cute Red Wig. I take a detour on my way to Business Ed and walk past the music classroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of it. There it is, a curly red mop sitting on a black plastic head. It is, I have to admit, very cute. Even I feel a moment of weakness at the thought of standing onstage in the Cute Red Wig, belting out “Tomorrow” to an adoring crowd. If I got the part, it would definitely improve my dismal social standing. The whole singing requirement seems like such an inconvenient detail.

The sign-up sheet is already filling up. I notice Lydia's name in her big, flowing script, and Alyssa's name just below it, followed by her signature happy face. Staring at her little squiggle, so cheerful and sickening, reminds me that I've not only lost my best friend, I've lost the star of my movie. I couldn't come up with an ending when Alyssa and I were buddies. How will I ever write the perfect ending now?

What's even worse, I'm not sure I care. A part of me feels like calling it quits and selling my camera. No other kid I know dreams about being a Hollywood director, which just goes to show the whole idea must be pretty lame.
Lamekate
could be my new nickname, right up there with
Crap
kate
.

I always thought
heartache
was just a mushy word, but my heart really does hurt as I stare at Alyssa's name. I feel like I've fallen into a deep, dark pit. My chest burns and my throat feels tight as I grab the pen and cross out her happy face until it's a black gob of ink. I'm tempted to gouge out her name, but it doesn't feel like nearly enough. Alyssa turned her back on me and abandoned me to turn into a social zombie. I want her to know what it's like to roam the hallways like one of the living dead. I want her to know what heartache feels like.

I need a plan.

The thought makes me feel a tiny bit better. The pit feels a little less deep, a little less dark. I suddenly have a goal. I will teach Alyssa a lesson.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. Suddenly I'm fair game for Blake Nash and Paul Corbett. They act like I smell like chicken poop and they make fun of my movie. Lizzy and Mimi shoot guilty looks at me, but no one says a word. It's like I've become invisible. If I walk directly up to them, they say hi and act nice, but they quickly find a reason to leave, or they talk to each other like they've forgotten I'm there. No one stands up for me. I wonder if this is how Margaret feels all the time.

I always thought that Margaret was a pushover, letting the boys make fun of her. Now I see it's not so simple. I've been excluded. I'm alone, and that makes me an easy target, just like Margaret. I guess that's why girls always go everywhere in a pack. There's strength in numbers.

It reminds me of Henrietta, one of my mother's hens. She's at the very bottom of the social pecking order, kind of like me. You can spot Henrietta right away. She always looks nervous and ready to bolt. When she sidles up to the feeders, the other hens chase her away until they're finished eating. In the yard, she's usually off by herself, pecking at bugs and looking forlorn. She has bald spots on her back where the other hens have gone after her.

It seems like hens and humans have a lot in common, except on humans the scars don't show. I always used to wonder if Henrietta felt sad. Was she lonely?

“Can't we do something for her?” I asked my mother once. “How can we get the other hens to leave her alone?”

My mother shook her head. “I know it seems mean, but that's the chicken world. It's how they're wired. Anything we do would probably just make things worse for her.”

The truth is, there's only one way Henrietta can improve her lot in life. She has to prove she's tougher than at least one of the other hens. If she can out-scratch and out-peck someone in the flock, she won't be at the bottom of the heap anymore. Poor Henrietta can't do it, though; she's just too timid and scatterbrained.

Well, I'm not Henrietta. I have to fight back. It feels like I have a huge bald spot on my back where Alyssa dug in her claws. In my classes, I daydream about how I can rip her from Lydia's side. It seems I've turned into a mental zombie, too, because I can't think of a single good idea.

In the meantime, I sit with Margaret and Doris again at lunch, and I finally learn what social outcasts talk about among themselves—other kids in class, homework, teachers, movies, music. Pretty much all the same stuff that popular kids talk about. And I learn a few things about them. Doris has two fish. Margaret has a cat named Tabitha. Also, Margaret is an avid reader of teen romances. This is more shocking than learning she listens to Eminem. ­Margaret dreams about romance? It's like trying to imagine my parents being romantic—I have to quickly shove the thought out of my mind.

The truth is, it's hard to focus on what Margaret and Doris are saying. I smile and nod, but it's like I hear them through water. Out of the corner of my eye I'm always watching Alyssa, listening for her voice, wondering what she's thinking. Wondering why she's acting this way. With every day that passes, our friendship fades a little further into the murky gloom called Ancient History.

A thought nags at me as I pretend not to watch her. Maybe she has secretly wanted to be Lydia's friend ever since Lydia showed up in fifth grade. Maybe Alyssa was only hanging out with me until she got Lydia's attention. I stare at the back of her head in the lunchroom. She must feel my eyes burning into her because she suddenly glances around. Good. Let her be nervous. Very nervous. There's a zombie out to get her, and it's hungry for blood.